


Did I Tell You I Need You? (Every Single Day of my Life)

by PAPERSK1N



Series: A Taste of Honey [7]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1967, Counterculture, House Party, LSD, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Some Explicit Language, beatle years, cavendish - Freeform, psychedelic era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 05:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17934098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAPERSK1N/pseuds/PAPERSK1N
Summary: For the first time in John’s entire life, maybe, he feels safe in his own home, surrounded by other people without the need to pretend that half the paintings strung across the wall weren’t purchased in his name. John doesn’t have to tiptoe around his own living room, constantly paranoid about looking too comfortable, in case anyone floating around who isn’t in the know starts asking questions.John and Paul are having a party at Cavendish. They're both supposed to be playing host and entertaining, but, as usual, John has other ideas.





	Did I Tell You I Need You? (Every Single Day of my Life)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not dead. I just have like 100 more of these sitting in my drafts unfinished. Comment any specific drabbles u might like to see :)

AUGUST 1967, CAVENDISH

 

 

 

They’re having a party at _their_ house.

 

For the first time in John’s entire life, maybe, he feels _safe_ in his own home, surrounded by other people without the need to pretend that half the paintings strung across the wall weren’t purchased in his name. John doesn’t have to tiptoe around _his_ own living room, constantly paranoid about looking _too comfortable,_ in case anyone floating around who isn’t in the know starts asking questions. It’s only been two months since Paul let the cat out of the bag (because, apparently, if there was one thing that might distract the media from the fact that he was admitting to taking LSD live on TV, it was publicly admitting to _their_ circumstances as well-) but already, John feels like a new person. He’s never been more relaxed, and no- that isn’t just the drugs talking. It’s a state of mind kind-of-thing, he thinks. For once, John Lennon feels utterly _at peace_ with himself and his truth.

 

It’s more of a relief than anything. He and Paul are living their truth out in the open, the hellish back-and-forth pull of international touring is put behind them, the music sounds better, people’s minds are more open than ever thanks to the wonderous _lysergic_ , and although their lives will never, ever be _normal_ , John likes to think that this might just be the closest they’ll get. Having a party at _their_ house, his Omega is happy as a fucking clam, and their mad, daft world starting to make some fucking _sense,_ finally.

 

John Lennon is melting into a couch that cost more than Ritchie’s first motor, high as hell as the party buzzes and writhes and hollers around him. He isn’t quite where he wants to be, spiritually speaking, because Paul had only agreed to the party on the terms that John wouldn’t drop acid with his counter-culture friends and might stay conscious enough to be a half-decent host. It’s an awkward tension between them, the latest in tiny spats and squabbles that they’ve used to replace the _big issue_ of loving each other in secret, and John hates awkward tensions. So, John does what he always does with life problems. He ignores it. Sure, it’d be nice to be somewhere in the middle of an intense, eight-hour trip-a-thon, but he’s content on his cocktail of narcotics and weed, spaced out but still sharp as Paul flits around the room like a moth, suddenly content to play the role of happy housewife, flirting his way in and out of conversations like the inveigling siren he is.

 

It’s fun to watch. John hasn’t taken his eyes off Paul in a good ten minutes, utterly fascinated at the image of him sauntering around his kingdom, charming the pants off each and every loyal subject.

 

And, actually, this specifically is part of John’s new problem. He sort of wants the pants _off_ Paul.

 

His breath had caught in his throat earlier in the night, before the guests had started arriving when Paul descended down the stairs in _those_. His mile-long legs are wrapped in tight, corduroy flared trousers- a gorgeous shade of chartreuse, reminding John of the expensive wine they keep out the back in the cellar. His arse looks like a bath sponge- all bouncy and round and so far, John has actually done a pretty fuckin’ good job at not embarrassing either of them by doing something inappropriate. But it’s hard- and _he’s_ hard, and if he shifts around anymore in these candy stripe silk trousers, someone’s going to notice.

 

“John, are you even listening?”

 

George been droning on and on about his latest spiritual revelation for the better part of the last hour, and to be completely honest, John was starting to get a little bit bored. It just didn’t appeal to him in the way George wanted it to. Taking acid was the one thing he and George actually had in common for a little while, and more so than that, it was the only thing he and George shared that Paul couldn’t intrude on, because, back then he hadn’t yet experienced it for himself. Paul had outright refused to drop acid with him at first, and it had drawn John much closer to George for spite’s sake. Tensions spiked briefly between John and his Omega, but it didn’t last long, it never did. Soon enough, George was only interested in enlightenment of the non-chemical kind, and Paul was stumbling home at eight in the morning after a long night of tripping for the first time with his race-car friend. Now they _could_ drop acid together, although, Paul is still wary and often takes quite a lot of convincing. George had sworn off the lysergic all together, only caring about the mind expansion rather than the squiggly, giddy rush of a trip, and so far this wasn’t enough to sustain their rocky friendship. Recently, it’s starting to feel as if LSD might’ve been John and George’s _only_ shared interest, bar music. John doesn’t mind messing around with Indian songs and he _is_ interested in spiritual culture, but he took LSD to _escape_ his reality, not understand it. More so, he isn’t _in love_ with their new ‘counter-culture’ in the way George is. Sometimes their conversations exhaust him.

 

“Sorry Geo. What was the last bit? Explain it to me again, about the fifth step.”

 

George carries on talking, and, after ten seconds or so of seemingly thoughtful contemplation, John settles back against the couch and allows his eyes to wander back over to his mate, who is gesturing at a painting thoughtfully with some stuck-up _artist_ pals, a glass of champagne in one hand and a joint in the other. As the man with the thick moustache and honest to God _monocle_ starts talking, Paul glances fleetingly around the room, before settling on the couch, and John. He smiles, catching John’s eye. John doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t think he could, even if he tried. Paul’s just so fucking beautiful under the pretty lights of their pretty house, he’s stunned.

 

“Can you at least try and pretend to enjoy our guest’s company?”

 

John blinks, and suddenly, Paul is beside him on the settee, George long gone as Paul curls into his side, crossing his legs and handing the joint over to a dazed John, so spaced out he hadn’t even noticed Paul make his excuses and retreat from the conversation just to come over and give him a little (well-deserved) attention.

 

Still, it’s nice and Paul’s warm and the joint is bringing him back into reality, so he wraps an arm around Paul’s waist and tickles his hip bone, resting their heads together. This close, John can smell his giddy, excited scent, and he understands. He finds it thrilling too- being able to just _be together,_ like this, in a crowded room without fear of judgment. Brian had warned them for so many years that exposing their relationship would be nothing but their downfall, but so far, in the last two months, they’d done nothing but prove him wrong. Now, they were the faces of the _rebellious_ underground scene; backwards guitar and Vietnam protests, LSD and psychedelic clothes. If anything, being mated as Alpha and Omega was the least shocking thing they’d been getting up to.

 

“Sorry love.” John hummed, holding Paul to his side just a little tighter. “It’s just impossible to be social when you’re walking around in those trousers.”

 

“What’s wrong with them?” Paul frowns, and John smirks, pleased to note the scratchy corduroy material is just as interesting to run his fingers over than he’d imagined, the curve of Paul’s backside smooth and even.

 

“They’re _very_ tight.”

 

“Don’t you like them?”

 

“Oh, love,” John chuckles, pulling Paul close enough that his nose touches the side of his face, tickling at the hair behind his ears. “I _adore_ them.”

 

“So?”

 

“ _So,_ ” John runs a hand down his back, teasingly low before he catches Paul’s hand, locking their fingers together. “ _So_ , what the bloody hell am I supposed to do with this?”  He asks, moving Paul’s hand across his lap to his crotch.

 

“Well, I’m sure that can be taken care of.” Paul touches him teasingly. They’re tucked away in the corner of the sofa, not really in anyone’s direct eyeline but still public and a thrill rushes through John. His primal instincts scream at him to just _have_ Paul there and now on the stupid fucking couch, but he suspects Paul might have one or two objections. Their guests might also be a bit alarmed. Or- well- it’s the _swinging sixties_ after all. Maybe they’d be turned on. Maybe it would develop into an orgy, if he played his cards right.

 

“- _Later_.” Paul finishes, and John whines as he pulls his hand away and moves to get up.

 

“ _Paul_. Come _on_ , love, don’t be a tease.”

 

Turning back to face him with a downright _sinful_ smirk and heavy, weed-soaked eyes, their fingers still loosely intertwined, Paul tells him- “You’ll just have to wait, _Johnny_.”- and John can do nothing but throw his head back against the soft velvet and _groan_.

 

“I _can’t_ wait.”

 

Paul gives him that _look_ , the one that he usually despises, all up-himself and _I-know-better-than-you_ , like the kind of look John’s teachers used to give him in secondary school when he scrawled rude words all over his maths homework instead of equations.

 

“I think our guests might notice if we both disappear at the same time to go up and shag-”

 

“-not if you keep your fuckin’ mouth shut and hold off all the screamin’.”

 

“Oi! I don’t _scream._ ”

 

“Oh, come on Macca.” John grins, before imitating Paul’s blissed out half-smirk that he knows so well and moaning in a high-pitched, teasing tone: “ _Christ John, yes Johnny, right there baby, fuck fuck fuck yes-”_

_“_ -Hey! Shut up!” Paul giggles, swatting at him gently. John uses this to his advantage, catching Paul’s hand and tugging him back down to the sofa, brushing the side of his clean shaven chin with his lips as Paul falls into his lap. “I don’t go on like that.” He protests, but the blush on his cheeks tells John all he needs to know.

 

“You bloody do. Ritch and George can confirm, they’re the ones who get it through the walls.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“Now, come on! Just a quick one. Downstairs loo. Nobody will even notice we’re gone.”

 

“John…” Paul trails off, eyes darting over to the hallway that could potentially lead them both into an trip that didn’t require any kind of drug. John’s heart stutters, before his sly smirk spreads even wider. He’s known Paul for years, _eons_ in his heart. He knows all his tells, and, more importantly, he knows exactly how to lead him astray. He’d been ace at that since seventeen years old.

 

“Ten minutes.” He offers, and a dangerous glint shines in Paul’s eye. “I bet ya fifty quid I can get us _both_ off in ten minutes.”

 

“ _Ten minutes?_ Come off it.” he scoffs and splutters, but the heat radiating from his body, scent spiking into something sweeter and richer makes all the hairs on John’s body stand up on end. This close, he can practically taste him, cock twitching beneath his tight trousers. “You’re good, Johnny, but you’re not _that_ good.”

 

“One hundred pounds, sterling.” John counters, and Paul _grins_ , like the filthy, flirty _stop-out_ he is.

 

“I don’t need the money.”

 

"One fifty?"

 

"One hundred and fifty quid?! Are you serious?"

 

"Dead serious!"

 

"You're having me on-"

 

"I'm not!"

 

"We  _can't_ \- everyone's  _here!_ "

 

“ _Come on_ , love." John's voice dips to a whisper, and the fine hairs on the back of Paul's neck stand up in response. "Live a little?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(It takes John twenty-three minutes in total to work them both to a dripping, perfect finish, but- bent over the porcelain sink with a hand stuffed over his mouth to keep his cries muffled- Paul decides he never really cared that much about the cash anyway.)


End file.
